


april once more

by shhpotter (bonjourmags)



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Humor, M/M, basically everything in life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 22:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20590166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonjourmags/pseuds/shhpotter
Summary: I feared that, somehow, her destiny was decided. I feared that I couldn't do anything to save her life, to continue with her – she wouldn't trust I was sick, she wouldn't take another taxi, maybe she would say directly let's go to the museum. I hated this dream, suddenly, because it stopped feeling like I had another chance to save her, but the curse of watching the events go the same way they had been before, leading all very dangerously to her death.-Theo Decker woke up on the day his mother died, thinking he was dreaming. He decides to do anything to save her.





	april once more

**Author's Note:**

> hi!  
this is for jay sorry i annoyed you with this for ages (and will continue), apo (hope u will like it) and jay (yes all my friends have the same names)
> 
> don't hesitate to comment, yknow how it motivates writers!

I.

_ And I add my own love to the history of people who have loved beautiful things, and looked out for them, and pulled them from the fire, and sought them when they were lost, and tried to preserve them and save them while passing them along literally from hand to hand, singing out brilliantly from the wreck of time to the next generation of lovers, and the next. _

Looking at my own words made me forget them – it was as if I had repeated them over and over, my tongue keeping them alive but my mind messing up whatever they meant for me in the first place. I thought it was a nice speech, telling, in a way, the only story my life really had to offer: the love I gave to this painting during all of my cold nights and my colder days. I licked consciously my lips as I tried to seek any errors in what I could've wrote, but looking at them made me sick, yet happy. This sentence, the last paragraph meant closure to me. Now, I could die peacefully – because dying wouldn't do anything anymore.

In the past, I guess, my urges to die expressed the need of seeing my mother again, or moreover of not seeing anyone else than her. I felt like this life was unfair to me, and to her, mostly. I spend hours thinking that maybe I could end this suffering by drinking too much and leave Boris with the guilt of letting me grab another bottle from his dad's cabinet when we shouldn't have. Staying in a pool too long couldn't hurt me more than living without her. The pain was constant, like a white noise reminding you that you can never hear the full silence, in it's complete beauty of nothingness. And yet, dying was an option that scared me shitless; this was probably the only reason that kept me alive. That, and them. I would trade hours of looking in the void trying to find anything meaningful if it meant seeing Pippa smile when she was reading english literature, her finger one move away to turn to another page, Boris making another joke with his accent I couldn't forget, or Mrs. Barbour's wrinkles – the ones next to her eyes when she was intensively thinking of something and Hobie quietly breathing while looking at a new piece of furniture he had to – wanted to - give a new life. Those were priceless, or well, that's what I used to think.

If it didn't happen – being friends with Tom Cable, the school meeting, the museum, the painting, the ring, my father in Vegas, then I would have had a very different life. The price to enjoy the four of them, well, it was my mother's life. Not exactly priceless. I loved them all deeply, if you add the feelings I had for all of them I probably cared more than I did for her, but I knew in my heart that, in a breath, I would leave everything behind to save her. All those “if”, that I couldn't stop thinking about, they had no chances to every exist, and yet I loved getting lost in any of them. Sometimes, it felt like I could get better, it felt like hope, and then, most of the time, it brought me back to the hard truth: for some people, life sucks. And well, turns out I'm “some people”.

Life sucked, and yes I would probably be better off dead or never born, but I knew deep down why I felt like that – and why, in a way, Kitsey never did. I lost too much too young. That was the truth, it wasn't so hard and so surprising. I know all those newspaper made money out of my loss when she died, like they did with Pippa, and I don't blame them, a kid losing his only tutor is shocking. Everyone looked at our pictures, probably, or read our names, feeling bad for us, maybe, maybe, searching for a way to help us. They all knew that, since that day, that event, our life was truly fucked, and nothing would change that. Maybe that's why I wasn't too interested in Andy – well, if you forget about the fact that he wasn't interesting to talk with – and more intrigued by Boris and Pippa: they both felt the loss of their mother. I guess I wanted to find someone as broken as me, someone who could understand the urge of looking at the ceiling for hours without saying a word, thinking entire universes to ourselves, someone who could understand how full my throat felt when I thought of her. Pippa did, in a way, but tried to get one of those “normal lives” on the side, and oh boy, maybe she hated Everett as much as I did. Maybe she hated him for being him, having a life that easy, being able to kiss his mother's cheek when he went to see her whenever. I was deeply jealous of him, and everyone else, because they still could see their mothers, but yet, they often forgot to visit once they were older. I guess I would've forgotten to send her letters and call her a few times if I had the chance to live more time with her. Boris never really helped me, well, he did – but not in the way I'm speaking of right now. He never missed his mother and it seemed like he couldn't care less. Boris was like this, unaffected by anything happening to him, anything in this world. Maybe Kotku – and yet, another subject that I don't want to think about.

My pen was lying next to my letter, waiting for me to anxiously change some of it's words, or even dump it completely, like I used to do with the ones I wrote for Pippa as a teenager. I looked around, my hotel room, quiet. I opened the mini fridge, wondering where I would be tomorrow, or the day after, if I still had to another country or if I would slow down and meet up with Hobie to talk about the old times. I know I had a list somewhere. My life seemed to be made of lists, since Boris reminded me of many things we did that I seemed to forget (still unsure if  _ that  _ really happened or was from one of Boris' wild dreams, but I couldn't say, it was true that my memory looked like a cheese filled with holes). I wanted to remember everything, or at least have a list of what I need to do and that I shouldn't forget about. All of those lists went directly to my journal, waiting for someone to find them and see how close I was to break.

The mini fridge was half full. I already ate most of the candy bars they offered, and very surprisingly, I didn't even touch the bottles. I took every single one, watching them closely, holding two mignonettes in each hand. I decided to go with the smaller one; it looked like a cheap whiskey, but it would do the trick. Putting down the other ones, I laid on my bed, still fully dressed, too tired and unbothered to change. I chugged the mignonette quickly, like Boris forced me to learn when we were younger. It didn't taste nice, alcohol never does unless it was beer or mixed with tonic, but it tasted like it could get me closer to falling asleep. Once it was empty, the mignonette and my glasses found their way on the side of the bed.

I smiled, thinking of the painting. I loved it – more than I could love anything else. I was happy that, somehow, one day, someone will read my journal and those pages will be alive in that person's mind. And Maybe, for the first time since that unfamous date happened, I don't want to die. I want to live. Those were the last words I said to myself before falling asleep.

  
  


II.

In the middle of the night, I woke up. The light in my room seemed wrong, hitting the window in a way that didn't look like it was used to, like I wasn't where I was yesterday – and yet, it was true, I wasn't where I was yesterday, nor the day before that, and the one before - I've been moving around so much these past months, and while nowhere really felt like home, those hotels sure didn't give me any sense of being where I was supposed to be. I had a weird life, entirely driven by my odd destiny and how my mother's death shaped me into this character – nihilistic, drug addict, lonely character - afraid of showing emotions to the right people and too happy to lend my feelings to the ones I knew would wrong me, maybe because it was my way to punish myself for everything I knew was my fault. I'm rotten, but they are too, that's why Kitsey and were the perfect fit.

It was interesting to know how every single one of my choices since the stolen painting moment lead me to this point: I'm in a hotel room, and the light isn't entering the room through the window like I thought it would. Maybe I was still high, but I couldn't remember if I had any medications in my system at the moment. Maybe it wasn't that, maybe I was still drunk. I vaguely remembered drinking a bottle of something, but what was it? The bitter taste was still on my tongue, reminding me of this unhealthy habit of mine. Vodka, gin, whisky, beer, names that hit close to home, unfortunately. Which one? Or something else? It was dark and my glasses were off, so I couldn't be sure of anything – which bottle was open and laying next to my bed, was I still really in the same room as yesterday - did I change hotels during an episode I couldn't remember? Boris would look at me with tired eyes, half closed, half sad, whenever he talked of something I hadn't any memories of, as if some parts of our friendship, of us, were only lived by him. I wondered if he lied to me, once, twice, or a thousand times, about things we supposedly do. About that night. Those nights? Who knew? Not me.

All that I could think of was that my mind was certainly playing tricks to me, right now, but also all the time. I turned around in the covers, groaned into my pillow, hoping that this time, I would fall asleep quickly. I was too lazy to actually get up and take another bottle to put myself to sleep, so I hoped it wouldn't take too much time.

After what felt like only a few seconds, I opened my eyes, stressed. Something in the room next to me – the hallway - fell on the ground and woke me up directly. I wasn't rested at all. I knew from the light around me that hours had passed, but yet my mind felt tired like always. Looking at my hotel room, I stopped breathing for a second. Then another. I wasn't awake, for sure, this was a dream. In front of me, one of the posters I had in my room at the place my mother and my father used to share. I could remember it so precisely, being the first thing I saw every morning for years. It was a picture that my mother liked a lot. She was so interested in it that had printed it, placing it gently in a dark brown wood frame as if it was her most important possession. I know calling it a poster was somehow degrading, because it was actually an important photography showing Yves Klein, a famous painter, falling. I could remember, vaguely, sure, but at least I did, when she kindly asked my father to add a nail in the wall so she could proudly show it. I don't know what he said – probably something along the lines of, can't you do it? - but he never did and I found the photography a year after, waiting around in a box that my father had filled with the most ridiculous things that I had to take a second look to realize it was that famous photography she used to love so much. I decided to take it for myself, quite selfishly, because of mother liked it enough to frame it, and if my father hated it enough to hide it, it must be important. I hanged it in my room, proud of being able to do anything alone, waiting for her to see. She was happy, smiled at me and gave me kind eyes. I had no idea of how much they meant at the moment, but after the years, I now know this love – for me, and for the photography – she had.

I was surprised that my mind could dream of this photo so precisely after so many years without seeing it. Trying to find my glasses, my head still in the clouds, I realized that I wasn't in the hotel room from last night and that I wouldn't find them. I breathed in, shaken by the situation, before taking the covers off. I was dressed in one of my old pijamas – the blue and yellow one, that my “father” had gave me for one of my birthdays, but I knew it wasn't his idea to buy it, I was never his – the memory really had  its way to work, my mind able to let me dream of myself dressed in clothes who disappeared from my closet years ago, art I didn't let my eyes rest on for months, and yet I couldn't remember undressing Boris when he swore I did. “Ah, yes, you were eager. We both were, but that is old. Now we both have girls to play with.” He had told me, a slight curve dancing on his lips.

Looking at my hands I saw how small and how much they were unaffected by the usual shaking I'm used to. It was weird, how somehow I was dreaming to be young again, it happened before, sure. I walked to the door, unsure if I wanted to really know what my imagination would offer once it was open, leaving me into this world of the past or moving me into something even crazier.

But it wasn't. It was still my old house. On the ground, next to me, a painting was on the ground. The nail was off the wall, leaving a mark. I looked at the object then the wall, going between the two of them, wondering why I was having a dream like this, what it meant, but also asking myself how I could be so aware that I was dreaming but yet I didn't control anything. It wasn't one of those in which I could fly or go and see girls to do things I was too afraid to try in real life, dreams of me delivering the goldfinch from my – the – painting, leaving him the life he should have had, free. It was just a simple dream, and yet, I knew it was one. There was no way this could be the reality.

I heard some steps behind me, getting closer. “Theo,” a voice that I didn't recognize said, the tone quietly aggressive, as if I had done anything bad, “Let me do this. Get ready, please, we have to go to the meeting.” The voice, getting closer as the woman walked next to me, was accompanied by a smell. I knew I was about to cry. It was my mother. I turned around to look at her, still surprised that my dreams was the only place she still existed, and there she was. Describing her would be stupid – there weren't enough words to give her justice, and I would certainly use too much time to do so, which I don't have at the moment, I could finally watch her and enjoy her beauty without having to think about every corner of her, afraid of losing was I still had left of her in my memory – her face, gentle, frowned at me.

“Go get dressed. Hop, hop. Quick.” She hushed me with a hand, leaving my heart on the ground next to the painting. My thoughts were all around – usually I would dream of her missing, in a bus where I couldn't see her, or an object that I was sure she used to carry around just sitting there on a table, reminding me that she wouldn't be able to hold it in her hands anymore - and yet this time it was different, she was there, right there, I could hear her voice that I thought I forgot over the time. In a way, I did. When she talked first in the hallway, I had no idea it was her. Maybe my mind created another voice of her's because I couldn't possibly remember the one she had. Somehow, still punishing me, my dream made her angry at me. Her eyes weren't as soft as they were in my memories. I walked back to my room, trying to figure out what was going on in this fantasy world. My dresser was a few inches on the right than where I thought it would be. How could my memory relate a dream in another way than the one I thought it would go? Why was I creating another world that didn't even match the images I had of the first one? Many questions, little time to see my mother.

Once I was dressed like she asked – and I did it quickly, I needed to be with her as much as I could, even if she wasn't the nicest to me – I met her in the dining room where she had moved with the painting. She was trying to understand what happened, but it didn't matter to me. She was the only thing I could see in the room. The only thing I wanted to see for the rest of my life.

“Come on, take your bag.” She said as soon as she saw me. Her voice was gentle even if her eyes weren't, and I took my backpack with me. Exactly like I remembered, just less stained with ashes.

Then, something hit me. It was the date. April 10 th . My mind was sick for making me live that day again.

I opened my mouth, once, then twice, trying to find something to say so we wouldn't go. “Mom, I'm sick.” My voice, in a pitch higher than the one I was used to since I was a teenager, was unsure. She would never buy it. Her hand went quickly to my forehead and I felt alive, as if this dream was the realest thing I've ever had the chance to live since she died. I must have smiled without acknowledging it, because her eyes went from her hand to my lips as she arched one eyebrow. She was so pretty.

“You're not. If you think I don't know what you're doing, you're wrong, Theo.” My name. When she said it, I knew the word was created for her use and only hers. Her hand moved from my forehead to my jawline, cupping my small head. “Theo,” yes, it's me, I'm here mom, with you, “I know you don't want to go,” you have no idea of how much I don't want you to go, “but you have to. You've done something bad and they need to tell me. I took the day off for this. It's important that we go.” She breathed. “Sometimes, we do bad – stupid things, like you probably did, but the important is the lessons you take of your mistakes, so you never do it again.” I loved her so much but I couldn't help but think that her words were like those records that parents and teachers tell the children – one that they never really told me, firstly because they were all too prone to say that anything that happened wasn't my fault, secondly because my mother died before being able to give me the speech, thirdly because my father was too uninterested in raising me properly to actually tell me things like these. But she was right. I knew my mistake, it was somehow something I did this morning that lead her to her death and I was about to learn from my past. Even if I was dreaming, she had to live. Just to know what else there could be, a world with her, maybe, a world where we live together until she grows old, wrinkles next to her eyes because I would make her laugh with snarky remarks while we watched television.

I had to know which action could change the path of her life, and mine with hers.

When we arrived downstairs, I saw Goldie again. It was the first time after a long long time. While seeing him wasn't as important as seeing my mother, I wanted to hug him. But how could I explain this? I know I used to be a quiet kid, maybe a quieter teenager after the incident, but I would never hug the doormen. Even if I was really happy to see him, I don't want to appear too gay. So I looked at him, smiled, but didn't even listen when he was talking with her. I had other things to do: pick the right thing to change so we wouldn't enter the museum. I could try to get another cab who will lead us directly to the school, instead of halfway. That was a great idea. When the taxi arrived, I tried to lie the best I could.

“I don't really trust this cab,” I said, which wasn't such a big lie, anyway, “can we take another one, please? We have the time.” My voice echoed as no one answered. For a second, I was afraid that no one would listen to me because I was a kid. But my mother did, and she answered, her tone a bit annoyed, “No, Theo. You're going to drive me nuts if you keep trying to delay the meeting.” She turned to talk to Goldie, and I hated how she acted like every other parent, talking about me, while I was here, as if I wasn't, “You see, he did something bad. The school called me and we have to meet Mr. Beeman in a few. Theo is trying to find any excuses to not go there.” That's where she had been wrong. I was currently trying to find any excuses to go there. Goldie answered, I didn't care. Right now, she was about to die.

I feared that, somehow, her destiny was decided. I feared that I couldn't do anything to save her life, to continue with her – she wouldn't trust I was sick, she wouldn't take another taxi, maybe she would say directly let's go to the museum. I hated this dream, suddenly, because it stopped feeling like I had another chance to save her, but the curse of watching the events go the same way they had been before, leading all very dangerously to her death.

The taxi ride was just like the first time. The smell, way too strong, the taxidriver looking a bit weird, my mother feeling sick. We got out. I wanted to cry.

She was trying to get another taxi, but I knew very well that no one would stop. Soon, we would walk in the park, because I selfishly wanted to go that way for the cafeteria. It would start raining, and the museum was the best decision to avoid the rain, because she was in love with art as much as I was in love with her. It was either she could see her favorite paintings one more time, but die, or she wouldn't see them again and she would stay by my side.

Fuck the paintings. I want her.

I want her. I want her. I need her. I couldn't see her go to her death, not in my own dreams. I had nothing else to lose ; she was all I ever had and she had already died.

“Mother,” I said, feeling a tear slowly sliding down my cheek, “It's going to rain. We should get inside this café before it does.” I showed her the shop I was talking about while she looked at the (ciel). Her eyebrows did this thing, again, as if she was unsure of something. Maybe sad. I couldn't understand her emotions – deep down I knew that I understood my father more than I did with her – what was going on? “Oh.” She had said, simply. “You're right.” Another pause. “You know, there's a museum on the other side of the park,” no, no, no, “I think it would be better to go there. There's two paintings I would like to show you. The anatomy lesson and the gold-” She started, but stopped quickly, looking at me. I know I was crying. “Oh no, Theo. What's wrong? You're afraid about the meeting? Don't worry it will be fine.”

“It's not the meeting.” I told her.

“What is it, then?”

I don't want to see this painting again. I thought, but it was false. Or at least not today: that was true. “Nothing.” I told her, not able to talk about the painting. “Can we just, not go to the museum today? Please?” She looked at me, annoyed that I was asking her not to do what she really wanted to. I was ready to hear her tone changing into something more filled with anger as she would tell me that we had to go now. She has to die, I guessed. I couldn't save her – not in real life, not in my dreams.

“Okay.” She said, taking my hand and she started to walk to enter the café before it started raining. I couldn't believe that it was happening. Or more: that it wasn't happening. Really, it was as easy as this? I had to cry, that is all? Maybe I underestimated how my emotions could impact others during my life. Somehow, this nightmare was finally starting to feel like an actual dream. “Thanks.” I told her. It was great to be able to say this. She kissed the back of my hand, forcing me to walk faster to be on her level. “It's fine. But no more losing time! We're going to your school for the meeting, whether you like it or not.” Suddenly her eyes were shadowed again. I shake my head. Yes, anything but the museum.

She asked for a simple coffee, and bought me a tea. I ate a croissant, reminding me of my detours in Europe with Boris. I've never really been to Paris, and yet Boris made every city to be like the capital of its country. This sentence didn't make any sense, but it was the one I was thinking about. I was thinking of him, maybe for the last time. I knew that in this dream, if my mother doesn't die, it meant that I would never leave to Vegas with my father, so no Boris. Ever. I wondered what would've happen for him if I wasn't a part of his life ; maybe, he would be happier? Not in the deep of a mafia like he is now? Would anything be the same? Would he love Kotku the same if I wasn't here to hear him talk about her – would he even fall for her? Without meeting Xandra – there would be no place for him to live and nothing to eat after his dad would leave him. Maybe, maybe, he would die.

My mother would live so Boris could die. No – Boris would die so my mother could live.

I shrugged those dark thoughts but realized – me, not being in the museum, would change many people's lives. Hobbie, firstly, would probably close the shop without my help to make sales. Mrs Barbour would probably have an easier life without me. I'm going to miss her, that was sure. Thinking about it, I've only impacted three people's lives – Boris, Kitsey and Hobbie. Pippa showed me how well she had enjoyed life without me in it, my father and Xandra didn't change their lifestyle when they took me in, none of the girls I've ever met truly fell for me. Not even Kitsey, my fiancée, but maybe her life would be less complicated without me; or just the same. She probably would find another boy, one that smiles more,I hope, to hide her relation with Cable. A poster. A fake. Like me.

“You're right, it's raining.” My mother said, eyes excited, “I had no idea you could read the clouds so well.” She looked at her watch. “But we need to go. Finish your tea, honey.” I did as she said, happy to obey her orders. I took her hand as if I was still a toddler when we left the shop. It was moist, like the air outside, but I didn't care – at least, I was able to hold her hand one more time before waking up. She called for a cab, and surprisingly, lucky us, she found one very quickly. Looks like once the museum was off the table, the odds were in for my mother and I. She spoke to the taxi driver in a voice she reserved to people she didn't know well.

I wanted to tell her everything, how we just escaped her death and the dark path that my life took with it. But something told me I shouldn't ; I wasn't religious and surely didn't think reincarnation was something that happened to humans – but, but, maybe, a second chance? - I wanted this to be anything else than a dream, and somehow, I knew that if I told her I would either wake up or fail this new life.

The cab stopped at a red light and my insides stopped working for a second – I knew directly what it meant – I was linked to the explosion, my heart there with the painting, there with Pippa, there with anyone who died or had their life changed with this incident. It was happening, right now. Tonight, I would read newspapers naming the deaths that occurred ; Pippa's name would be under the ones of the children who lost an important part of their family. For once, I was happy that my name wouldn't be next to hers. I couldn't breathe, feeling the ashes in my nose and tasting their scent in my mouth. I was there and then I wasn't – because I cheated. I should be there, like my mother, but I was selfish. I wanted to give me, her, us, a second chance. “Theo?” She said and the world was turning again, turning around her – everything worked again, my lungs were free of ashes, my eyes could still see without blinking too much, my heart was right here, with her. I didn't answer, I just looked at her. I tried to look scared, because I wasn't a thirty year old man who just saved his mother from her awful destiny, no, I was an eleven year-old kid about to get kicked out of school.

“We're there.” The taxi driver said, his eyes bored, because he had no idea of how important he was to my current reality. My mother gave him the money she owed him for the ride and we walked a few steps before entering the school. Everything was blurry – no idea if it was because I was here but there at the same time, or if it was the bliss of having a life in which she was alive. The adults - except me. I wasn't an adult in this body – talked about me, how they saw me smoking (I wasn't), and that wasn't accepted around here. I'm glad they didn't know about the stealing I did (Not the painting, it wasn't a concern anymore because I never even saw the painting in here, but the money in the houses) and if Tom didn't say anything about it, I wouldn't either. The story would be behind us; like the explosion. My mother would probably read the newspaper, say something about the people and the art - she cared more about the people than the paintings, and, sadly, for me it was the other way around, I missed my painting like it was my own heart, beating without me elsewhere – and how my grades were going down, down, down, falling like Pippa under one of the (???) of the museum.

Welty must be dead, now, I thought. Maybe in another dream I could save him, Pippa and Hobie.

I wasn't really listening – and honestly, they didn't care, my mother was the important person in here – but I could hear that they weren't going to expel me from the school. Some words I could hear from my daydreaming (is it called daydreaming if you're already dreaming?) were needs to work more, we can't see him smoke again, watch out for who he hangs out with, he needs to see a psy before it's too late, we know his father leaving impacted his notes – wait.

“Psy?” I said, unsure. All of the adults looked at me as I knew that talking without secretly asking for it was wrong. “Yes. But don't worry, we have one at school. It's one hour every two weeks. It's great, you'll see, you can talk about you and what you like.” The director told me, and I could remember the psy at school – I hated him, how he tried to know what was wrong when it was my mother being dead, I hated how he thought he could help me when he was truly useless – I couldn't even remember his name – Dave, David, maybe? Thinking about him reminded me how things were really in my life, she wasn't next to me but six feet under. “I-” I tried. “I don't want the one from school.”

My mother looked at me, startled. She turned to the director, with her nicest smile on, “Maybe we can get to an agreement. I could find someone that Theo likes outside of school and show you proof of his visits?” She asked, caring for me – caring more than anyone could ever. I smiled, and approved with my head, not that my opinion was asked. The adults seemed to agree – bye bye David.

III.

Once I was home, my mother had bought rice and chicken. It felt unreal, and too real at the same time. Her lips, in a thin line, were telling me that for now I shouldn’t talk but in a few days it would get better. Sad that even if I had saved her I couldn’t hug her and kiss her cheek, like I had wished for seconds and years. I somehow knew that this dream would end soon, I knew at which second it would end. It all started because I closed my eyes and went to sleep, so I would wake up by going to sleep once more. I only had one day with her - the worst one of her life, the worst one of mine - and yet I wasn’t surprised that my subconscious wanted to find a way to change everything and picked that special day. We ate in silence for a few minutes before she had cracked a smile. “I can’t be mad at you for too long.” She said, quietly, while the tv was working in the living room.

I cried. 

I knew that crying made me look girly - and I hated that, mostly in front of my mother, I had to show her how strong I was, but yet I kept crying today. She moved around the table, changing seats, to be closer to me. “Is this about your dad?” She had asked me, as if I ever cared about him more than he did about me. “Do you sometimes miss him?” She knew I didn’t - none of of really missed Larry. He was gone and that was okay. He was in Las Vegas, I knew that, with Xandra, probably taking drugs on a table, bickering about some bets he lost or worse, won. I knew that my mother’s earrings were with him, somewhere hidden in Xandra’s drawers, between an old t-shirt that showed too much of her breasts but Boris used to love how it looked on her. He used to say that “In a way, she is selfless by showing her like this. She’s thinking about others. Offering herself, you should be more like that. Give more pieces of you to people around you”. I never understood what he saw in her. She was a downgrade version of my mother, to me. 

“I don’t. I’m glad you’re not mad at me anymore.” Was all I said. She smiled, her hand on my back, warming this part of my body but also my heart. The TV was still making noise when the news came on. My mother didn’t really pay attention to it, until she had heard the words “museum” and “bombing”. Her hand had slid a bit, because she wasn’t thinking of holding it anymore - she was shocked, I thought - as she turned to the TV. 

“Oh god.” 

I licked my lips consciously. We were there but we weren’t. It felt weird. Then all of it came to life : I saved her, but still, it felt like I killed Blackwell. It wasn’t the explosion who killed him, no, it was me. I should’ve warned everyone, but mostly him. If Pippa was disfigured, alone in a room without too much light, it was my fault. Not the bomb. Me. I should’ve done something. This was a dream, a nightmare, telling me that there was no way I could even try to save anyone I ever loved. I knew that if this dream went on, I would’ve lost everyone just to save her. And yet, the word just felt too strong for a sentence like this one. I was glad she was there, shocked that the artwork from the museum was damaged or even gone, shocked that people died while enjoying art, more than there, laying on the ground like the bodies I saw, mouth dry, years ago. Searching her. She was right there. Next to me. She was alive even if I was asleep.

“It was my favorite painting.” She had said. I wasn’t really looking at the tv - I knew what they were saying, I was there - so I was analysing her face to know what she was talking about. The anatomy lesson? She had moved to the couch, so I laid next to her, my head in her lap and head touching the ground of the museum. Were my glasses dirty or was I only seeing the ashes in the building? My hand touched my nose before touching them, and I remembered that I wasn’t wearing them - I was too young to have them yet - they were slowly waiting in the hotel room, next to me and my bottle of alcohol. “The Goldfinch.” She said, and I froze. 

What? 

“It was my favorite painting.” She murmured, making my skin ache, holding my shoulders so I wouldn’t fall from her legs. “It’s gone. Damaged forever.” Her hands moved to my head, brushing my hair like Boris used to do, “Oh, no.” I swallowed. I thought it wasn’t her favorite - but mine - and now, it was gone? My whole life, everything I ever did, every choice that I decided to take, every word shared with anyone since the incident - gone, just like this? Because I asked for a croissant? I couldn’t believe it. The painting, it meant everything to me, it was me, my mother, Pippa, Boris, the Barbours, Hobie - hell, Popchyk - it was everyone I ever loved in a small bird. I was like him, enslaved in my fate, I couldn’t live perfectly, save all of them, meet all of them, love all of them if I wanted my mother next to me, brushing my hair, scared of what the world has come to. 

Pippa was the last person on this earth to see The Goldfinch. I could live with that. I could dream that, too. 

I never answered my mother’s words, and maybe she didn’t even need me to do so, or even hear them, she only needed to hear them herself. She had moved my hair from my forehead and slightly traced the shape of my jaw - it was very round, not at all like I was used to see in the mirrors - as if she was trying to save my face in her hands. 

“You need to sleep, Theo, it’s getting late.” She told me, and I knew in her voice that the painting, destroyed, took a part of her heart with it. If only she knew that that object was my heart, my own, I wouldn’t let anyone see it, no one. It was my secret, Pippa and Kitsey would never know that I had it in my possession for so long. My heart, destroyed, as if it wasn’t fucked up way before it burned today. 

I didn’t want to sleep. I knew, somehow, that it would end my dream. I was happy to know that I could’ve done something to save her, but so sad to leave so soon a reality that let me be with my mother longer. I sat up, looking at her and we talked without words for a second. She opened her mouth, “Do you-” she had started, but stopped herself before saying more. I wondered what she wanted to tell me, and why she felt like it wasn’t necessary. Maybe she knew something, maybe she felt herself dying next to the paintings as much as I could still smell the ashes in my nostrils. Maybe, maybe, she knew that I worked against her fate. Would she be angry at me if she knew? Would she want a life of drugs, late nights next to a pool, vomiting on his shirt after holding him, a life of selling fakes to others because everything felt fake anyway, a life of pining against any girl who could make me feel like they were my mother, lonely, for me? Would she want that life for me if she knew what would happen? Would she trade my destiny for a painting, like I traded a painting for hers? 

She held my hand as she tucked me in. “I love you.” She told me, kissing my forehead. “I have a meeting for you tomorrow. You’ll have to speak to a girl, she’s going to be nice to you, you just need to tell her what you’re thinking and how you feel.” I knew what it meant, of course. She kissed me once more and my skin burned. Wen she left I knew that I would soon wake up from my dream, somewhere in a hotel room, alone, her body six feet under. I tried to stay awake as much as I could to keep the feeling of her being alive, but it seemed that I was too tired - can you be tired in a dream? - to stay up. My eyes closed, and I feared of finding my old life again.

I woke up the next day. It was like the entire world was still dreaming, or if I was still dreaming the entire world. I was in my old bedroom, my old body who didn't need glasses (yet) and wasn't addicted to any type of alcohol or drugs. Lazily, I searched for my glasses, next to me, because I would always put them there. Sometimes, if I was too tired to put them on the table because I was too high on drinks or drunk on drugs, I would lay them next to me, hoping that my body wouldn't crush them during the night.

Like I predicted when I opened my eyes, they weren't there. Maybe I would never stop dreaming - maybe I had died and this was the after life - maybe this was it, what everyone wanted to know. I was afraid that I would have to live the day of my mother's death everyday for the rest of eternity, like in the movie you see, waking up, knowing what happens today and the day after and the one just after because it’s always the same one. Yesterday, something fell, if it fell again then I knew what it meant, I would be stuck. As I was waiting for the loud sound provoked by the painting falling in the hall, I was welcomed with nothing. Just silence and my own thoughts.

After a minute, trying to decide what to do, I walked to my desk and took a piece of paper and a pen. The color didn't matter, but I had black near me - like Boris' wardrobe, Boris' hair, Boris' nails after Kotku had painted them - and I started a list. It was a habit of mine, it was easier to see what I should do. It felt right to do a list of everything. I searched for anything that I would've liked to change if I had the time to re-do my life from day one. Day one being the one in which she died - not this time around - now day one was just like another day. Nothing happened. 

I drew boxes to check them off - I like my lists that way, crossing a box gives a very satisfying feeling - the first one being "save her". I wondered what I should do now. I should try to save Hobie from a sad path - without me to help him run the shop, maybe he would go bankrupt and end things badly. I was too young to do anything at the moment, no adult would take me seriously, I couldn’t really do anything right now.

I decided that I would hide this list for when I was older, when I could actually change something. I wrote "See Hobie, Pippa?" next to the second box. Maybe if I wasn’t like her, if I wasn’t in the explosion, she would see me for me and not for a brother? Maybe she would love me? This new path made me think of so many maybes. The third box said "Vegas, 2015, Larry", because I could, maybe, save him from his death in a few years. Maybe, then, I would be able to see Boris again. I was afraid that if I wasn’t there he wouldn’t have anywhere to sleep after his father would leave him in Vegas, alone in the cold, but Boris was strong and would find a solution to live without me in his life. I had missed him already, he was this thought you always kept in the back of your head, a tiny box you’d open when you felt like having a good laugh. I knew that my new life had no free space for him. It was my mother or him. I had him in the past life and he decided not to follow me. I needed to be more selfish for once. 

Next to my father's name, I wrote "ask for the earrings", because my mother deserved to have them again. Not Xandra. Not Kitsey. 

I traced a larger box so I could write in it. It said “Don’t take drugs - you had enough for a lifetime”. My mother knocked on the door, “Theo, it’s time for you to eat, you have school.” She told me with her voice full of honey and flowers from exotic countries. I folded my paper and taped it to close it. I decided to hide it under my bed, like I used to do with the painting. 

I was ready for a new start.


End file.
